Behind Blue Eyes
by Hint of a Melody
Summary: Merle and Daryl Dixon, two names that are cursed to constantly carry the memory of a dark, eerie past with them. Certain scenarios resurface as the brothers relive a troublesome time period before the epidemic ravished the globe. Their months alongside Cherry, an agonizingly mysterious stripper who had unexpectedly shimmied her way into their lives. (No slash.)
1. Chapter 1: Empty Chairs and Empty Tables

**A/N: This story was inspired by the latest episode of The Walking Dead, and of course, the troubling, confusing relationship between Merle and Daryl. Let me start off by saying that there will be no slash included, just a deeper look into their past. Most of this will take place pre-apocalypse, if that changes, I'll make sure to say so. And lastly, reviews would be super awesome, helps me to possibly improve my writing and sparks new ideas. Enjoy! :) **

* * *

Chapter 1: Empty Chairs and Empty Tables

* * *

Daryl was caught in between that dreary expanse of precognition where he wasn't quite dreaming, but wasn't anywhere near being yanked back into the present, either. He stirred, feeling the rough ground beneath him, the cotton wool fog of sleep making his skull pound as if it was filled with dense, throbbing cobwebs.

It was then that he saw it. The unmistakable orange surrounding him, engulfing him, corroding wherever he chose to look. The moment his pained eyes would sweep across a wooded area, the fire would swallow it whole, burning everything in its path. Smoke wafted across his tongue, twisting its blackened arms around his body so tight that an irritable ringing erupted in his ears. He heard his mother call through the able flames licking their vengeful fingers at his skin, leaving a stinging trail wherever they chose to grasp. She was screaming, howling as the fire enveloped her small frame, searing her until there was nothing left behind but charred flesh. It all felt so real, the redneck questioned for a moment if it was truly all in his head.

A powerful stinging sensation pricking his worn cheek gave Daryl the answer. A jolt of pain awakened him, sending a wave of throbbing rolling up to his eyebrows. He bolted upright, his gaze blurred and clouded, the objects surrounding him a hazy mural of dull colors. A spine chilling shadow loomed over him, the dark silhouette clenching and releasing his fists.

It was Daryl's father.

"Damn it, dad! Why do you gotta go around slappin' people all the time," he muttered, warily rubbing the burning portion of his skin. He knew that he shouldn't be speaking against him, it would only earn him another beating, or worse.

"Fuckin' kid," he slurred drunkenly, a splash of Jack Daniel's falling onto their stained flooring as he stumbled around his youngest child. "Where's Merle?"

"Merle ain't-" Daryl tried to intercept, dragging himself up their faux paneled walls with a shaky palm. He couldn't remember the last time he ate.

"Merle?" His dad hollered unevenly, his pant leg catching on the uprooted corners of their carpet, loudly toppling onto the floor. He let out a disgruntled laugh, slamming his palm into the pieces of shattered glass that used to be filled with burning whiskey.

Daryl planted one foot in front of him, starting over to his old man. Something inside of him shifted, his emotions churning like gears, and he decided otherwise. The only thing he'd earn from his unwilling kindness would be another reckless whittling, or maybe he'd be graced with another hour of burns. Over the years of living with his abusive guardian, he's found that those are the worst. His father would leave the blistering hot object on his back long enough to where the flesh would meld with the iron, ripping the festering skin with it, the agony is worse than being run over with a steam roller.

He shuddered at the horrifying memories, nausea tying his stomach into curdling knots. He tromped over to their rickety door, weak floorboards creaking beneath the weight of his sturdy hiking boots. He let an aggravated string of curses escape past his thin lips as his gaze rested on where his crossbow was supposed to be, the area left vacant and empty. Daryl settled on a dull buck knife that was strewn off to the side of their unkempt trailer, his grip on the blade strong enough to break bones as if they were twigs.

He heaved open the chipped alabaster entrance, wincing as a large splinter lodged into his calloused palm as the threshold automatically slammed shut. Daryl worked at the chunk of aching wood with his teeth while he stomped down the stairs, leisurely heading towards the dense thicket of wilderness that surrounded his small house.

The forest had become something along the lines of a trusty shoulder to lean on during his troubling childhood years, a friend that never spoke, never got upset over his unfortunate short temper, and always stayed with him. That reality was comforting, he had a safe haven that would never escape his desperate grasp. Only, if trees could talk, the hick was sure that they'd shoo him away.

The grooved soles of his shoes sunk beneath the mossy dirt, soft due to the howling storm that had swept over the Dixon residence the night before. Sunlight filtered through the gnarled branches of saplings, drawing intricate patterns on the quenched soil. Daryl couldn't stop his mouth from twitching in what seemed like a bitter smirk, the weather seemed to mirror his clouded, unhappy mood.

He made sure that his steps were silent, save the faint sloshing of moist leaves wedged between the forest floor and his heavy boots. He abruptly halted in his movements as a squirrel scurried up the rough bark of a tree, Daryl's broad frame going completely still. He slowly raised one muscular arm, flipping the thick dagger in his palm so that it was poised to throw. He lined the tip of the blade with the petite mammal, making sure that the aim was slightly offset so it would meet its mark. He drew back as if he were a snake preparing to strike at its prey, and hurled the blade forward. Daryl felt relief shudder through his veins as the knife lodged into the squirrels neck, jogging towards the frail sapling to retrieve his catch.

At least he could find satisfaction in something.

* * *

Daryl hunted well into the hours of night, until the sky was covered in a seemingly unbreakable ebony that dragged on for miles, and the moon showed its mangled white surface. He stuffed at least three squirrels in each of the oversized pockets of his sun bleached jeans, and even after that, he kept prowling for more animals, leaving the dead carcasses where they passed due to the lack of space.

He threw one more brief glance at the glowing orb of light that hung lightyears away from him, images of Merle flashing across the depths of his mind. Daryl vaguely recalled his brother toying with him, attempting to make him believe that the moon was made out of some kind of space cheese. Except, all that he ever saw was a gorged, eerie face staring down at him through the thick darkness of evening.

He slowly advanced towards his home, a grimace adorning his rustic features as a sudden realization dawned over him. A house was supposed to give a person a sense of security, an aura of safeness that never left his or her side. They always had a place to go back to, four walls to protect them from the outside world. Only, as he stepped over the last root that protruded from the dirt and laid eyes on his shabby doublewide, he realized that was anything but the truth. For normal families, maybe, but Daryl's home life would never be average.

He heaved open their unstable door, accidentally yanking the fragile wood from its hinge as he entered the house. He cringed as the all too familiar feeling of fear sparked through his body, his sapphire irises darting around his living room in search of his father.

He took that time to marvel at how ruined his quarters were. The whole inside of his home stank with the putrid odor of expired dairy and soiled fast food, carpet dotted with stains from spilled alcohol and splatters of dried blood. His sofa looked as if it had been mauled by some sharp toothed wild animal, large sections of stuffing ripped from the stiff fabric. Gaping holes in his false wooden walls stared back at him, the craters were the outcome of either Daryl's or his father's short fuse. Half empty chip bags and Bud Light cans were tossed into large piles, located wherever his parent saw fit. A drunk didn't put much thought into cleanliness.

He wiped his chapped lips with the back of his palm, his expression hardening as he laid eyes on his father. The old man was laying on the tiled kitchen floor, choking in a heap of liquid emptied from his still heaving stomach. Daryl grimaced, hurriedly escaping to his tattered room before his guardian noticed his presence.

He quietly shut the mahogany entrance to the chambers that he used to share with Merle, fumbling with the lock on the door until it bolted shut. He spun on his heel, collapsing on the shredded mattress that lay on the tarnished ground. The twin sized cushion was the only object that inhabited the trivial space.

He dragged his clammy palm down his sweat caked complexion, his heavy eyelids closing themselves against his will until he fell into a light, feathery sleep.

* * *

He was pulled back into reality by the shrill noise of something nose-diving into the floor, followed by a loud streak of curses flowing from a man's mouth. Daryl paid no mind to this, the redneck was still held fast in the dreary warmth that rest brought with it.

He hardly noticed the sound of knuckles pounding on his door, causing the whole floor to vibrate under the person's brute force. He immediately tensed, his muscles growing rigid under the possibility of his dad barging into his room with a dagger in hand.

Daryl grappled for the knife by his bedside, slick fingers eventually wrapping around the leather clad handle. Deep down, he knew the weapon would do him no good, whenever he tried fighting back it only earned him more slashes across his malnourished limbs.

He heard the person outside let out an infuriated sigh, and, oddly enough, the sound of high pitched giggles followed the action.

"What's so funny about ol' Merle's anger, eh? Willin' to bet you won't be so outa line when you get my damned boot up your little asses, will ya?"

The feminine chuckles immediately ceased.

_Merle?_ No, he must of heard it wrong. His sibling left years ago, abandoned Daryl in cold blood to save himself from the brutal torture that Will Dixon brought upon the two of them.

"Guess my baby brother don't wanna come out and play," the man cooed, slapping his large palm against the door. Daryl would recognize that raspy, unhealthy voice anywhere. And he realized that it truly could be...

"Merle?"


	2. Chapter 2: Flesh and Blood

Chapter 2: Flesh and Blood

* * *

Daryl slowly approached the ramshackle door, anxiously awaiting his brother's response. His right hand unwillingly balled itself into a tight fist, fingernails digging into the rough skin that stretched across his palm. He hardly noticed the nerves thundering inside of him, causing his chest to grow heavy under the unwavering pressure.

"So, you gonna open the door sometime today?" Merle voiced, the sound of a woman's high pitched squeal echoing through the hollowed wood that served as a barrier between them. Daryl felt his throat constrict at the thought of what his brother possibly could of done to earn such a sound from her.

"Uh, sure..." He voiced, uncertain fingers turning the knob with a measly flick of his wrist.

Daryl was almost positive that his appearance reflected exactly how he felt; like utter shit. His plaid shirt was torn in certain places that his father had taken out his relentless anger in harsh beatings, his dusty mop of hair was ruffled, sweat caked strands standing up in all different directions. Welts and bruises darkened his sore skin, thankfully, most of the odd coloring was hidden beneath thin layers of clothing.

"Darylena," Merle voiced, his words sounding more like an impending premonition than a greeting. His previously bright expression darkened for a brief moment as his tired eyes flicked over Daryl's disheveled get up. "What'd the old bastard do to you this time, run you over with Jess's tractor?" The statement was meant to be a lighthearted joke, but his tone hinted that he didn't doubt the suggestion.

He remained silent, even after Merle's hand toughly clapped his tanned shoulder, Daryl's gaze unceremoniously locked on the duet of ladies shifting behind his brother. He attempted to act as if he didn't mind their unwanted company, but he wanted them gone. He couldn't brush off the persistent embarrassment of the tarnished appearance of his house. He was unable to offer the two flashy woman drinks, their water hadn't worked for months, and he doubted they had anything fresh in the fridge other than cheap beer.

His gaze involuntarily traveled downward, catching an eyeful of halfway exposed breasts hiding behind the low collar of one of the female's shirts. He immediately moved his vision elsewhere, gulping down his uneasiness. Daryl threw a brief glance at his brother, willing him to understand the silent words beckoning behind his jaded irises.

"Aight, ladies," Merle turned on his heel, lifting his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. The girls' make up clad features practically glowed at his tone, sounding as if he were offering something.

Daryl's stomach dropped at such a fast rate, bile rose in his stale throat. He had noticed the welcoming rhythm of his sibling's voice. It was like a subtle coo, foreshadowing the events that were soon to come.

"Get your asses outa this joint," Merle's expression turned sour and stony, fingers pointing a clear path towards the exit. Their faces deflated the second that he spoke, the excited glint clouding their eyes immediately withering away.

"Now," he voiced again, this time using more aggression to persuade them. He took a daring step forward, sending the girls scurrying off like a flock of cornered rats. Merle remained poised with his back turned to his brother until the front entrance slammed shut, sending a wave of tremors shaking the whole trailer.

"I walk in here, first thing I see is the ol' man drownin' in a pile of his own hurl," Merle took a long, dramatic pause, as if he was waiting for Daryl to start wailing as if he was a kid again. "Surprised he ain't dead yet."

He half expected Merle to ask him to reveal the smooth scars that blemished his broad frame, to get a good look at the damage their father had burdened him with ever since his sibling fled the household. Only, he didn't make a sound.

"Why're you here?" Daryl muttered gruffly, feeling anger well from somewhere within the pit of his stomach.

Before he had the chance to move away, he felt bone meet his jaw in a hard blow, cascading the area in a deafening _crack._ Daryl tumbled onto the matted carpet, feeling warm liquid tumble across his lips, slightly parted in pure shock. It took him a moment to process that Merle had punched him.

"I decided to drop by outa the kindness of my heart, and that's what I get?" He chuckled hoarsely, digging in his pocket for an unknown object. Merle bent down on one knee, hovering nearly nose to nose with Daryl. "Huh?"

"What else did you expect? Disappeared for I don't know how many years," he spoke up, wiping the blood seeping from his nose with the pad of his thumb. "Shouldn't of been lookin' forward to nothin', man."

His brother was taken aback by Daryl's words, throwing a longing glance at the small bag he had slipped from his oversized khakis. Merle clenched the plastic in a clammy palm, the grains of white powder grinding against one another as he did so.

"Naw, 'course not," He cackled, yanking Daryl closer to him by the front of his pullover. "In fact, I'm proud of ya for puttin' on your big boy pants and growin' a pair," he muttered, clocking Daryl square in the balls with his knuckles. He let out a pained grunt, his chest heaving as a burning sensation erupted through his lower chest and thighs.

"I've gotta little somethin' planned for us, baby brother."

Daryl immediately knew that he was knee deep in shit.

* * *

Daryl was well aware that the two of them only had a few more hours of night before the sun would peek from behind the thick expanse of forest, marking the time of day as morning. He silently sat poised in the passenger seat of their beat up truck, ignoring the feeling of his gut churning as Merle swerved the vehicle across the cracked and aged street. He leaned his elbow on the perch just below the grimy window, feeling annoyance hum beneath his skin as he heard his brother snort another small palmful of cocaine through his flaring nostrils.

A light drizzle had begun to patter against the land, the faint sound of rain splashing against the metallic roof of the car was oddly comforting to him. He hardly noticed the change in terrain beneath the tires as Merle pulled into the crunching, gravely parking lot, ungracefully slamming on the breaks once he found a spot that he saw fit.

Daryl was anything but surprised as he saw a bright pink shape illuminate the hood of their grey pick up, letting out a nearly inaudible sigh. His gaze swept upwards, landing on an image of a stiletto tipped leg stretching across a sign that read _The Crazy Horse_ in loopy cursive letters. He assumed it was one of Merle's favorite hang out places nowadays.

Merle shoved open the stubborn door, shaking the whole vehicle as he hopped onto the rocks that blanketed the dirt. He stood on the toes of his sturdy army boots, shoving his side into their aged truck, Daryl could faintly hear him holler 'Darylena' from outside the smudged windows.

"I'm comin'!" Daryl barked irritably, wincing as the hinges of his door let out a shrill creak as he pushed it open. The last thing that he wanted was to be in some Podunk strip club in the late hours of evening.

Merle slapped his rough palm onto the back of his brother's neck, letting out uneven, rugged laughter as the outcome of his overdose of lethal drugs. Daryl could hear the faint sound of classic rock blaring through the rusted double doors, blinding lights flashing across the small, square shaped glass apertures carved into the metallic surface of the entrances.

"You're in for the life of your... Night of your...light," Merle slurred, forcefully kicking the heavy threshold open with an able foot, pushing Daryl inside so roughly that he nearly stumbled over his muddy pant legs.

"You need to sit down, man," Daryl called over the pounding music, but his sibling was already stumbling towards the small bar set off to the side, the tangled duets of bodies enveloping his clouded silhouette. It took him a moment to realize that Drop Dead Legs by Van Halen was spilling from the cut-rate speakers that outlined the room. The entire area was shrouded in shadows, the only thing that you could see was the top of the crowds' bobbing heads, and, of course, the illuminated stage.

Daryl tried not to look at their exposed legs and curvaceous waists, twisting and bending around a single iron pole to the deep rooted rhythm of the music. The pounding guitar thrummed through his chest, sending uncomfortable vibrations quaking throughout his whole body. Soon enough, without even being there for a measly half hour, sweat was building up beneath his ripped clothing, causing his pants to awkwardly stick to his thighs and his shirt to cling to his drenched chest.

He suddenly felt hands heavily clamp onto his shoulder, rowdily heaving him forward. Daryl caught himself by accidentally clasping a girl's frail arm, earning him the stinging feeling of fingernails raking his palm from her skin. He muttered a useless apology, flinging himself around just in time to see Merle, hips swinging off beat to the current song playing.

He could hardly make out the shape of his brother's lips forming the playful words, 'little D', before a bottle of Sam Adams was carelessly tossed towards him. Daryl somehow managed to catch it, but not before a splash of beer landed on his shoe, seeping through the crevices and dripping onto his wiggling toes.

"You tryin' to kill me?!" Daryl screamed, enragement thundering beneath his skin.

"Naw, their ain't no bee, baby brother. C'mon, let's go have a look at these lovely ladies," his words were muddled with the aftermath of being coked up and a slight buzz from the alcohol raging through his system. Daryl didn't have the option of objection as he was dragged over to the brim of the stage, coming to stand a measly foot away from the pivoted heels of a woman's stilettos.

He gulped as his gaze dragged upwards, getting a bullseye view of the underside of her skimpy mini skirt. Daryl felt a whim of uneasiness stir his insides, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to bolt through the two doors resting around a yard away from him. He didn't belong here, staring at desperate strippers as they ripped off clothing for the money.

He didn't dare speak his mind in fear of Merle accusing him of being 'some sort of fairy', or another stomach churning insult that his brother would come up with on the spot. He noticed the sudden, out of the blue feeling of being watched, a pair of eyes gawking at him through the thick expanse of people that scattered the club. Daryl realized that the music had stopped blaring, the uncomfortable buzzing in his chest had vanished, and it seemed that the females that had previously been in the spotlight had too.

He suddenly caught a flash of silver in the corner of his eye, the source of the bright glint coming from what he thought was a bargain-basement ring fitted snugly around a girl's finger. Merle's voice suddenly tingled in his ear, a wet substance spilling onto the leg of his jeans. He didn't doubt it was his brother's drink.

"See that piece of ass starin' at you over there, name's Cherry, hottest slut I've had since-" Merle's voice was cut off by a fit of wheezing coughs that wracked through his chest, escaping his throat in violent hacks. Merle must of noticed the expression of a deer caught in the headlights etched onto Daryl's features, and he voiced, "Well, go and get 'er, don't be no pansy ass."

Maybe it was the unfaltering pressure of Merle's gaze boring into his backside, or the taunting finger that Cherry had raised to beckon him forward, but soon enough, he found himself unwillingly stepping towards the easy woman. His burly frame was tense, an able nervous feeling twisting his stomach into knots. Deep down, he knew that he was doing this to gain approval from his brother, to avoid the heartless names Merle would burden him with if he chose otherwise.

* * *

Cherry had led him through the rickety metal door towards the backside of the club, pushing him down on a set of concrete stairs that led to the lackluster pavement below.

"You don't do this sort of thing much, do ya, sweetheart?" She cooed, tone resembling the soft murmur of a lullaby. She suddenly squatted, her knees spread at opposing angles to reveal the prize that was hiding beneath her thin articles of clothing.

Cherry had a head of vibrant crimson hair, roots fading to a deep brown, in desperate need of another dye job. Daryl assumed she had such oddly colored hair to fit her quirky identity, Merle had always told him that strippers have weird ass names. Her eyes were the color of dew that clung to grass on early mornings, a pale grey that seemed to have the ability to read you like a book no matter what the circumstances.

He didn't answer her question, instead growing tense and uneasy as she shuffled closer to him, her unusually large breasts wedging themselves between his tanned, muscular arm. Daryl had the sudden urge to shove her off of him, tell her to fuck off, something to avoid this unwanted contact.

"You seem reluctant, sugar, ease up a little."

And before he could process her actions, Daryl felt her palm press against the slight bulge in his pale jeans. An unstoppable wave of heat spread through his body, spasming towards his now pulsing groin. He immediately yanked himself from her gentle grasp, attempting to escape the element of warmth sweeping through him.

"Hey, hey, easy now, Daryl, was it?"

Daryl quirked a brow, staring at her dubiously. He wondered how in the hell she knew his name, considering he never allowed the information to slip from the recesses of his mind. He dipped his head towards the slice of concrete between his legs, again being reminded of how much he desired to bolt off into the night. The rough ground was beginning to cause subtle throbs to drum through his ass cheeks, and he wanted nothing more than to get away from those lustful ashen eyes, looking as if they expected something from him.

"Yeah..." He muttered uncertainly, shifting so that his body was further from her, though, he tried to make the measly action casual enough to where Cherry wouldn't notice. The questioning flash in her pale irises told him that his plan hadn't worked.

Cherry slithered closer to him, this time grabbing him with more brute force. At first it stung, with the stripper moving at such a rushed pace, but then she started moving her palm in a circular motion, lessening her grip some. Daryl wriggled beneath her touch, biting down on his lip until to avoid sounds slipping from his throat. He ignored the metallic tang of blood that washed over his tongue, instead watching as Cherry slipped her hand underneath the hem of his jeans, peeling the brim of his boxers away with experienced movements.

He sucked in a breath so fast that he choked on the unexpected intake of air, covering his mouth with his forearm as he coughed. Her fingers were cold against the heated skin on his length, and before he had the chance to tell her to get the hell away from him, she ran her thumbnail across the sensitive tip of his happy trail. Daryl let out a gruff noise, though it sounded as if it were more out of pain than pleasure.

Cherry worked at slipping his loose fitted jeans off, still gingerly massaging the tender spot on his groin. A sudden white hot burst of ecstasy moved through him, shuddering downward until he lurched forward, releasing what he wasn't aware he was holding in to begin with.

He wanted to apologize for his actions, for being unable to hold himself back before she even got the chance to discard his pants. Only, Cherry just smiled and wiped her hand on her flashy shirt, which seemed to be made out of only string and faux leather.

Daryl shot up, an uncomfortable feeling raging through him like a reckless thunderstorm. He carelessly zipped his wrinkled jeans, slowly backing away from her, attempting to ignore the intrigued glare she was directing his way. And before he could convince himself otherwise, he jogged away, disappearing behind the side of the aged building.

He had the urge to punch something, anything to release the unrelenting, unexpected anger that was pounding through his still tingling body. He hurriedly drove his fist into the nearest object, the jagged, uneven bricks that held up the unsteady structure. Daryl repeated the action until he felt the flesh on his knuckles break, revealing the thin layer of raw muscle beneath.

Daryl quietly slumped down the wall, clutching his trembling hand to his chest. He merely stared off into the night with hectic nerves, not moving until the orange sun peered over the verdant tops of trees that stretched on for miles before him.


	3. Chapter 3: Crossing Unwanted Paths

**A/N: Finally, the next installment is out, enjoy! (Thank everything that is good and holy for iPhones.) Though, I'm not sure how well this actually turned out. Also, ****I've been planning on making this story around ten chapters, a good, decently long Fic.**

**Anyhow, stay tuned! I have some devious ideas in store for you readers. *grins evilly* And it'd be awesome if you could drop some reviews! :)**

* * *

Chapter 3: Crossing Unwanted Paths

* * *

The two troubled brothers returned home carrying the sour scent of alcohol and low priced Menthol's, expressions haggard and thin hair askew. Merle, prideful as ever, remained stiff and cautious, putting up a weak facade in an attempt to seem as if he was sober, keen enough in his senses to hold himself steady.

Only, when reality slipped its unforgiving tendrils through the older Dixon's system, a splitting headache agonizingly grounded in his skull, an aching beat of drums against his temples. Merle's jaded blue irises were rimmed with a painful looking pink, causing his eyes to bloat ever so slightly. On top of this, his incapability to hold himself steady - toppling onto the dirt as he heaved himself from the truck, lurching up the acidic waste of his stomach, even shaking and shivering as if he was physically unstable - just served as more evidence against his false claim.

"Lay off, man," Daryl growled, harshly shoving his sibling from his sweat caked side as Merle heavily fell against him.

"C'mon, Darylena, ain't got no sympathy for your 'ol big brother, hm?" Merle cackled wryly, letting out a feeble snort at Daryl's rigid stance. "Say, what did that bitch do to ya, anyway?"

"Who, Cherry?" He immediately regretted his gruff inquiry due to the amused glare his sibling threw his way, hurriedly swallowing down the embarrassment wallowing in his stomach. "Didn't do much."

"Shame, she can be a real good slut in bed."

Daryl brushed off his lustful retort and climbed up the rickety wooden steps leading to their tarnished porch, loudly cursing in frustration as the frail top plank crashed beneath the weight of his hiking boot. He yanked his leg from the splintery hole, ignoring the sharp lumber dragging down his calf as he did so.

He wasn't surprised to hear Merle getting a kick out of his misfortune, bending at the waist and repeatedly slapping at his thighs as if he were trying to quench his breathless laughter.

Daryl scoffed in feigned indifference, dragging a large, clammy palm down his stubble adorned complexion. He cringed as the scent of sweat mingled with alcohol wafted up his nostrils, leaving a bitter perfume behind. His sleep deprived gaze eventually flicked to Merle, whose face was so red that it somewhat reminded him of those low budget cherries at a grocery store. And that only caused a whirlwind of recollections of Cherry from the previous night to crash over him, sending unsettling shivers down his scarred spine.

The jaded man flung the door to their rugged double wide open, ignoring the stinging slap of the shabby entrance ricocheting back onto his muscular arm. The putrid odor of old vomit circulated the small, beer stained trailer, combined with the sticky humidity that clung to the walls. His father had somehow heaved himself a decently large amount away from the pile of foamy hurl, now sprawled at an unnatural angle behind the mangled sofa.

A loud _crack_ resounding from behind him cascaded through his ears, which were still ringing from the night before, an irritable remnant of the deafening, chest shaking music that had spread through the club. He angled his body towards a shaken Merle, whose thin lips were spread into a wide, humored smirk.

He briefly took notice of the shattered railing that lined the front of their disheveled home, alabaster paint peeling to reveal the mildewy wood beneath. _Dumb ass must of broke it._

"Awe, look at Pa, all shitted up like that. I say we leave him, all in favor say I," Daryl's sibling chimed, waltzing nonchalantly into the torn up quarters. Merle blinked as he noticed the balmy liquid leaving a thin crimson coating on his hand, manifesting from a single shallow slash along his palm. He shrugged it off, wiping the thick blood onto his tarnished pants, easily ignoring the throbbing pain itching just beneath his skin.

Daryl ignored Merle's advances, stepping around the couch and into the kitchen, taking caution to avoid the hurl dripping between the tiles. He flung the yellow tinged refrigerator open, scowling in annoyance as he realized that all of their Sam Adam's had been greedily drunk by none other than their father. The light fixtures in the storage container had long ago busted out, along with the chilled air that had previously been enclosed in the small chamber. Now it served as another pantry, though their food was limited nowadays.

"I," He heard Merle voice behind him, speaking in a sing-song tone with a raised hand.

Daryl rolled his azure eyes, the meager action hidden beneath the broad concealment of his tanned shoulder. He abruptly pushed himself from the fridge, the slamming of the grimy door shaking the creaky flooring that blanketed the lamely sized house. Merle was now lazily poised against the paneled walls by the door, the same lax grin curling his ashen mouth.

"Say, little brother, what you think 'bout goin' hunting? Haven't had a bit of genuine "bonding" time in awhile."

"Can't, working," Daryl hastily mumbled, slipping his thumbs through the belt loops of his loose fitted pants.

"Since when do you got a job? What's the point?" Merle scoffed incredulously, tapping his knuckles against his jean clad thigh.

"Food, beer, -"

"Drugs," Merle intercepted deviously, letting out a low sniff while running his thumb over his nostrils.

Daryl threw him a pained glare, mingled with a faint undertone of ferocity. He let out a gruff breath before proudly striding past his snide brother, shoulder ungracefully bumping against his as he hurriedly advanced through the swooped threshold.

"I ain't that kinda guy," he spoke, nonchalantly picking at the grime and dirt caked beneath his short fingernails.

"I see how it is," The older sibling spoke, the raspy rhythm of his voice holding disappointment and annoyance, thick and razor sharp. "We still up for huntin'?"

Daryl took a few brief heartbeats to harbor a proper response, rubbing at the scruff on his chin with a pensive stare before mumbling noncommittally,

"Yeah."

* * *

Daryl's midnight colored motorcycle ceased in it's boisterous rumbles as he flipped the ignition off, propping the sturdy bike on top of the sun bleached gravel. He calmly strode into the run down repair shop, the pure, unfaltering stench of oil and grease immediately slamming into him. He brushed the dust from his grimy and stained uniform, faded name tag still neatly pinned onto his chest.

The rickety building, which slightly resembled a worn warehouse, was located just off to the side of a town that was hardly fifteen minutes away from he and Merle's rusted trailer, a rocky road leading up to the structure.

"Daryl," a bubbly voice called out to him, a middle aged blonde woman taking form in front of him. "Thought you weren't going to show," _Margaret_, he realized darkly, grimly, almost.

He merely lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug, allowing a brisk grunt to slip past his thin lips. Margaret had been his manager for the few long, drawn out months that he'd worked at the mechanic shop. And she was still as perky as ever, tanned skin wrinkling as her mouth spread into a grateful smile that hinted at flirtation. _Forgets she's almost fifty_, Daryl snickered inwardly, snagging a dirt caked toolbox from one of the shelves nailed to the western wall.

Soon enough, Daryl was hunched over the opened hood of an old sapphire Mustang, tending to the many damaged pieces of complex machinery rooted within the tip of the vehicle. The light tap of footsteps echoed around the moist, sticky interior, the sound was faint, hardly noticeable over the loud fans that blasted air from behind them.

"Excuse me?" A woman voiced, the soft grumble of her words wafting around him like a song, an oddly familiar melody.

"Yeah?" Daryl mumbled bluntly, pursing his lips as he jerked an aged wrench to the right, gradually tightening a stubborn screw.

"I'm here to pick up a car."

He wiped the slick grease from his palms onto the rough fabric of his pants, peeking at the slim figure standing before him with a suddenly shocked gaze. She had crimson hair, still moist from a recent shower, weaved into a lazy braid, hanging loosely over one side of her neck.

"Daryl," Cherry said involuntarily, gray irises lighting up in surprise. This time around, there was no heavy onyx make up that coated her eyes, leaving her looking natural, and much more pure and innocent. Like a normal woman prowling around these parts.

"Said you were here to pick up a car?" He grumbled, leaning against the side of the rustic piece of scrap metal with wheels he was working on.

"Yeah, my boyfriend's Camaro," she explained, tugging at the soft cotton hem of her plaid jacket.

_Boyfriend?_ He thought incredulously."Ain't heard of a dedicated stripper."

She threw him a hard glare, tilting her head towards the the chipped concrete beneath her slip on sandals. "You'd be surprised," she murmured, uncomfortably chewing on her bottom lip. "You've got to do what you've got to do to survive."

"I know," Daryl muttered dismissively. _Trust me. _"Then what was the point of doin' what ya did to me?"

"Have to build myself a bad reputation, word gets around of me screwing guys behind the scenes, the worse it gets," she explained lowly, pausing in her statement for a short moment at Daryl's judgmental stare. "Worse my reputation is, the more money winds up on stage."

"Gives you a higher profit," Daryl said coolly, waving one hand in a measly gesture for her to follow him.

He planned on whisking past her, expression remaining fretted and indifferent, when her small hand caught a hold of his elbow. Her touch was soft and light, but sure and steady all the same.

"You've got a little something..." She told him, wiping her thumb over a streak of black that was smudged over his cheek.

He flinched away, ungracefully yanking his arm from her gentle grasp. The grump then led her outside, the unrelenting sunlight brightly striking down on their backs, leaving them both immediately feeling tenacious and wet.

"This it?" He asked, clapping the top of a fiery red Camaro, shaking out the burning sensation that the hot metal had burdened his palm with.

Cherry dipped her head in a subtle nod, pushing the few tufts of hair that had fallen over her forehead away. "My name's Clara."

Daryl threw her a questioning glance, remaining quiet and puzzled, chewing at a throbbing hangnail on his thumb. _Point bein'? _

"I don't like people outside of The Crazy Horse knowing me as Cherry, reminds me of who I am even when I'm not...working," she thoughtfully halted in her words, rubbing at the back of her neck. "I guess you could say I'm running away from it.

"I've known the manager of the place since I was a kid. Used to love cherries..."

Daryl angled his head in understanding, his features remaining withdrawn, rough like a stone. _That's where she got that strange as hell nickname. _He wondered why she was opening up to him in such a way, the redneck never thought of himself to be someone another would want to talk to about deep rooted issues.

"Well, I've got your car," Daryl offered, slipping his hands into the spacious pockets of his work get up, fiddling with the nails and bolts that had been mindlessly dropped into the opening.

"Thanks," she muttered, but Daryl had the suspicion that the troubled woman wasn't finished. "There's this cafe at the other end of town, Sweethearts, mind meeting me there after your shift is over?"

"Boyfriend wouldn't like that too much, I think," he warned, slicking his hair back with his fingers. "I've got plans, anyway."

"That's a shame, I did too."

A befuddled glare painted its way onto his features as if his complexion was a blank canvas, awkwardly taking a small step backwards. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I planned on ditching," she hurriedly muttered, words blending together in a muddled sentence.

Daryl roughly bit the inside of his mouth, pondering on what Merle would do when caught up in a situation such as this. "Maybe I could stop by your place someday this week?" _Sure as hell ain't comin' to mine. _

Clara's eyes widened briefly, expression turning crazed and panicked. "No!" She wailed, quickly clearing her throat. "I mean, I don't think that'd be the best idea," she corrected, rubbing at her arm with a slight wince.

"Maybe I'll see you around, Dixon, stop by The Crazy Horse sometime."

With those rushed words, skin ashen and frame shaken, she slipped into the front seat of the classic vehicle. The engine started with a small sputter, and she sped off down the street, sending dirt and gravel spiraling through the air.

And Daryl merely stood there, staring after the strange woman that had left him gawking at a suddenly empty space.


	4. Chapter 4: He Trusts Me,He Trusts Me Not

Chapter 4: He Trusts Me, He Trusts Me Not

* * *

Daryl confidently aimed for his target, circular crimson light hitting it dead on, unwavering and solid. His finger hovered over the trigger, bolt locked sturdily into place, sharp edged tip pointed dangerously for attack. The deer frolicked about, oblivious that it was about to become the youngest Dixon's latest slaughter.

Just as he pressed down on the stubborn lever, sending the arrow-like rod whizzing through the air towards the doe, a proud and arrogant Merle came bustling over the tumbleweed of roots and bushes that knotted the landscape, a dead squirrel flopping uselessly in one hand.

"Hey, Darylena, look what I got for ya!" he muttered with feigned enthusiasm, brow furrowing at Daryl's stony expression. "Awe, what? Got your panties in a bunch about somethin'? This damn thing ain't good enough for you?"

"Nah, man. Lost a deer," he explained gratingly, wiping at his mouth with his knuckles.

"Hell, guess it really ain't good enough," Merle snickered, stuffing the carcass of the small rodent into his oversized pocket. "So, was work as fun as it sounds? Get all dirty, fixin' up them cars?"

Daryl let his arm swing back its regular, more comfortable position, the deadly crossbow poised in one palm weighing down on his side. He silently pondered over how much he should tell his sibling, who was impatiently awaiting his response.

"Ran into Clara," he grumbled after finalizing his choice of words, scratching at an irritable, pricking itch on his shoulder.

"_Clara?_" Merle scoffed, gaze turning sour and disapproving.

_Shit. _

"Why you callin' her that? Should be Cherry, leave it at that."

"The hell you know her name?" Daryl inquired, voice gruff and unwelcoming.

"We had a bit of bondin' time between the sheets, little D. Can't trust a hoe like her."

"She told me -"

"She give you the ol' abusive boyfriend card? And you fell for that load of grade A bullshit?"

"Abusive boyfriend card?" He asked incredulously, brows arching as a whim of cluelessness fell over him.

"Yeah, she spoon feeds that crap to every guy she meets, makes 'em all sympathetic, gets 'em buttered up real nice, then dumps 'em straight on their asses -"

A sudden shift of movement in the tight-knit wilderness immediately struck the brothers silent, their hunter's instinct flipping on as easily as a light switch. Two pairs of unwavering blue irises carefully scanned the area, the sound of dead leaves crunching beneath their boots hardly audible over the quiet racket of their thoughts.

A weak whimper bellowed through the gnarled branches of nearby saplings like a foreboding whisper, causing the duet of burly men to become stoic and still, unmoving in the brush. Then came the near-silent sobs, faint wheezes unwillingly creeping past ones lips, unable to hold back a strong whim of an agonizing emotion.

"Christ," a feminine tone rasped, followed by a bemused scoff. _Close,_ was the first thing that hammered into Daryl's mind. _She's close. _

The siblings slowly, cautiously advanced forward, unsure of what exactly they'd find. Was this anonymous woman injured, dangerous, soaring through the clouds on a high dosage of drugs? They couldn't be sure.

Daryl suddenly found himself staring into sodden grey puddles, rimmed with a faint alabaster. They were sad, smoky orbs, hazy with a somber pain. He soon could recall who this stranger was, the realization slicing through him like a dagger. _Startin' to think she's stalkin' me. _

Clara's hair fell down her back like pasty red ink, the ringlets tousled from the wind stirring around the area. She seemed to have rid of her wool jacket that she had adorned earlier on that day, left in a pale, sand colored tank top. Daryl felt the air being knocked from his lungs, leaving them raw and dry, as he saw the odd coloration that blemished her fair skin along her arm.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Merle mused, rubbing carelessly at his chin.

"Why is it that I keep on unintentionally running into you, Dixon?" She muttered playfully, seemingly ignoring Merle's looming presence. The groggy girl grimaced, knuckles turning white with pain.

"Dunno," Daryl murmured, uneasily clearing his throat. "Jesus, Clara, the hell you'd do?" He choked in shock, watching the droplets of blood fall onto the soil, sliding through her tightly fisted fingers.

"Oh, this?" Clara chuckled, though the noise came out as stiff and rigid. "I fell," she spread open her hand, thick auburn substance welling in the shallow dips and crevices of her palm, seeping from a large, jagged gash. She threw a knowing glance at Merle, eyes widening as if she were a deer caught in the headlights.

"What's with this _Clara _crap?" Merle butted in, propping himself against a tree with his forearm. "Should be callin' her Cherry, remind her of what she really is."

"Merle -" Clara intercepted deviously, brows furrowing in trepidation.

_"A whore." _

"What right do you have to be talking, Merle? You trying to tell me that you don't sleep around just like the next slut?" Clara sneered, sucking on her bottom lip as the eldest Dixon took a haunting step forward, his shadow swallowing the small shape of her own.

"Funny how you trick yourself into thinkin' you're anythin' else," Merle continued, stance tense and daring.

"Cut it the fuck out!" Daryl wailed angrily, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Go on, baby brother," Merle beckoned nonchalantly. "Tell her the truth."

Daryl immediately felt like a caged rodent, trapped, helpless with nowhere to make a hasty escape. He was torn between the acceptance of his brother, and sparing the poor woman's feelings, even if her innocence seemed to be truthful.

"Do you honest to God let him order you around like this, Daryl?" Clara said in disbelief, ashen gaze boring into him just as it did the first unfortunate night that they had met.

Merle's ragged features turned acidic and venomous, lips drawn back in a merciless snarl. He lunged forward, ruthless fingers curling around the hem of Clara's beige tank top, slamming her into the sharp, rough bark of a tree.

"Know your place!" Merle howled, her fatigued cry only causing him to press her even further into the jagged trunk. "Bitch," he snickered, spitting harshly at her feet.

He carelessly tossed her off to the side, and Daryl just barely caught a flash of imprints on her shoulders. Imprints of the uneven texture of the tree bark, leaving her fair skin looking deformed and misshapen. _Damn_, he thought, unintentionally taking a step away from the angsty scene that had played out measly moments before.

"What?" Clara snarled, dull irises staring at his frigid expression. "You pity me?" She asked in amusement, shakily pushing herself from the mossy dirt, moving until she was at her full height.

Before the hick could muster a response, she jabbed a finger towards him, a silent accusation. The shadow of the towering oak that she had been mercilessly pounded against mere seconds ago cast eerie darkness over her features, bringing out her smoky, anger struck eyes.

_"Don't."_

"He don't pity you," Merle grumbled laxly, glaring down at her with cold sky colored eyes.

Clara remained passive, a flustered pink setting in on her rounded cheekbones. She threw one last feeble glance at Daryl, a small gesture, but one that was filled with emotion. Enragement, festering and smelting, and a slight pinch of sadness, dull and dank as a bleak, moonless night.

"You leavin' or what?" Merle quipped impatiently, lifting the rifle that he had propped against the ground and sturdily, almost teasingly waving it in front of her tired face. "We were in the middle of somethin' before you so kindly interrupted, missy."

Daryl somehow bit his tongue, gulping down the guilt that was smoldering in his gut. He didn't want to defy his brother, the only person who had stuck with him through all the turmoil their family threw down on them, he could hardly blame him for leaving when he got the chance. If Daryl had been in Merle's place, had a glimpse of that shimmering light peeking through the dark crevices of their life, he would of fled too.

He didn't want to hurl that dedication away from him, not for a mysterious woman he had met just days ago, a woman that he hardly knew. Not for her, not for anyone.

It took him a moment to realize that fiery haired girl was waltzing away from them, hands curled into tight fists at her curvaceous sides. A curse suddenly spilled from her mouth, spreading her palm to reveal the vital substance, some crusted, some still alive and flowing a bright red, spreading thick along her skin. Even if burning agony was prodding at her insides, she didn't falter in her strides but for only a mere second.

"Yeah, that's it, keep on goin'," Merle cooed, cackling at the ruthless glare she directed his way.

Daryl watched her as she went, biting at the side of his mouth until the metallic, tangy taste of blood washed over his tongue.

* * *

"Please," _the weakened voice pleaded, thundering through his skull like a haunting whisper, icy, rhythmic tendrils brushing against his heel, following him down the beaten path that he desperately ran on. "Please!"_

_He couldn't escape it, the begging, the raspy, quivering melody of her voice. Daryl knew not who this woman was, his mind was unable to place it, thoughts ticking and abruptly halting as if he were a broken clock, brimming on the anticipated number. _

_He was barreling down a beaten path, the atmosphere surrounding him bleached a dull purple, faded to a pure black in some areas. His vision was depleting, breaking, while stumbling forward with bated breath._

_Trees stood tall before him with twisted trunks, chipped bark creating an optical illusion, wicked, gnarled grins. The woman was now wailing, high pitched screeches tearing through his eardrums like a lion's roar. _

_An image of Merle suddenly snapped in front of him, blockading the rocky, dust slathered trail he was to continue on. A virulent smile tugged at his sibling's mouth, lips stretched wide, too wide. The ends ever so slightly hung from the sides of his face, pulled back in a pernicious grimace. _

_Daryl's heart hammered in his chest, so hard that it felt as if heaving his insides onto the earth would be the easier option out of the uneasiness that was clawing through him. He flung himself around, lungs enlarging painfully, throat turning crusted and parched. _

_Two figures took place before him, a darkened, masculine silhouette, a nameless predator with shadows dancing across his features, and the small, helpless prey. A woman with lamely dyed crimson hair, bloodied and butchered, dense, syrupy liquid covering her features, running down over her eyes and cheeks like reddened rivers. _

_The shadowy figure jerked forward, clobbering his knuckles into her feminine frame, constantly, repeatedly, the following blows just as strong and solid as the last. He stepped back for a brief moment, as if he were inspecting his work, his mauled masterpiece, before a sharp, angular object, still shrouded in shade, formed in his palm. _A knife.

_Before Daryl was forced to endure the slaughtering before him, he hurtled himself around once again, running off into the brush. Except he only got a few minor steps away before the shredded woman took shape directly in front of him, her mousy nose brushing against his own. _

_His stomach leapt into his mouth, shock imbedding itself within him, resolute and able. He tried to desperately shove her away, but his hands wouldn't move, nothing would. It was if his muscles were immobilized, grounded to the spot, unwilling to budge. _

_She lunged forward, brusquely knocking him onto the dirt. He could already feel the pain of an unknown object pressing into his backside, digging into his skin. It was soon joined by the torment of a dagger, glinting in the unseen lavender sunlight, being driven into his torso._

Daryl bolted upright, chest heaving in rugged, uneven breaths. Drops of sweat clung to his tanned flesh, some dripping downward, leaving a thin trail of distressed liquid.

A dream, that was all it had been, a demented nightmare.

* * *

**A/N: So, what do you guys think? Can he trust Clara? ;) **


	5. Chapter 5: Late Night Terrors

Chapter 5: Late Night Terrors

* * *

Daryl's gaze flicked around the room, his narrowed indigo eyes glowing like deep pools of moonlight. A continuous ache had settled itself within his bones, accompanied by the adrenaline rush of a swiftly beating heart. He rolled his ankles, letting out an elongated breath that he didn't realize he had kept bottled up inside of him. Every bone in his cramped body felt like rusted hinges on a door, stubborn, defying movement.

Merle was laying sprawled on the floor as if he was battered roadkill, rooted just below the small window that was bolted into the feign wooden walls. He felt his chest freeze like a block of ice as an image from his recent dream flashed through his mind, Merle with his stretched lips, pulled so far that Daryl wondered if he had been whipped through a torturous surgical experiment.

He wiped the sweat from his glistening forehead with the back of his hand, gruffly staring at the shredded mattress below him. A sudden recollection rolled through him, Clara back at the car shop, an offer to stop by The Crazy Horse. And though it was just a measly invitation, one that he could easily brush under the rug and instead wallow in the acceptance of his brother, he felt as if he had to right his wrongs.

Even if Clara was a stripper, a cheap and curvaceous piece of ass, she didn't deserve the treatment that Merle had inflicted upon her. Though, for a short lived moment, he paused and reconsidered. Was her suggestion for him to go still up for grabs? Or would she rather avoid his presence altogether? _Probably trusts me as far as she can throw me_, he sniggered inwardly.

Daryl made a quick split second decision and rolled off of his uncomfortable bed, attempting to silence the loud creak that his knees slamming against the matted carpet brought. He swallowed down his bundle of insecurities, emotions draining away as if they were thick, sluggish sap. He slipped on a pair of beer stained jeans that were lying beside the pivoted door frame, and hurled a navy tank top over his muscular torso before tiptoeing out of the rusted trailer.

He slowly led the stubborn door back to its resting place with one sturdy hand to prevent more racket, hooking his fingers into the inside of his mud caked boots before quietly tromping down the steps. Daryl couldn't help but cautiously throw a glance at the darkened window that loomed behind him, as if Merle would appear out of thin air, staring at him with that twisted, demonic smile.

He lifted himself into their old pick up with a weary breath, slowly and ever so carefully enclosing himself within the musty vehicle. He paused, staring down at the silver key that was shoved into the exhaust. Daryl forced a whim of unconvincing courage before flipping the engine on, fingers unmoving from the cold metal. The truck let out a few wheezes and sputters in protest, but with a few fluent curses from its driver, the ancient device rumbled to life.

_You may be holdin' the reins, but I'm fuckin' this horse,_ he thought grimly, twisting the steering wheel with a lazy palm, steadily directing the vehicle from the front of his tattered house.

The drive to Clara's work didn't take nearly as long as he'd anticipated. After more than a few blasé glances from behind a grimy window, and nearly running over an arrogant squirrel, he was pulling into the gravely parking lot. Much to his dismay, the area was packed with vehicles, mostly dirt crusted trucks that closely resembled his own beaten up Ford.

He ungracefully pushed himself from the sticky leather seat and landed on the ground with a hushed _thump_, accompanied by the sound of tiny rocks and pebbles shifting beneath his shoes. The fluorescent pink sign that hung above the club was flickering this time around, basking the cars that were lined close together in a pale light. He could hear the now familiar sound of a thrumming guitar through the heavy metal doors that secluded the warehouse from the outside world, shaking the earth beneath his feet.

Daryl hauled the massive thresholds open, immediately overwhelmed with the stench of alcohol and sleazy late night sex. He advanced through the crowd with false confidence, keeping his fatigued eyes peeled for any sign of Clara. _Cherry_, he internally reminded himself, _she's Cherry here._

"C'mon man!" He heard a thickly accented voice holler, spilling beer onto Daryl's arm as he whirled his arm above his hat covered scalp. "Dance, live a little!"

He ignored the man's taunting words, expression remaining stern and serious. Daryl's irises unwillingly drifted over to the stage, brightened with blue and green lights, his masculine instinct getting the better of him. The girls swung and looped their smooth looking legs around a silver pole, seductively flashing their feminine parts to the boisterous people that filled the room. He looked away just in time to avoid catching a glimpse of a trashy blonde woman shimmying her way down to a hick with an outstretched palm, his greedy fingers groping for one of her overly visible breasts.

Unsatisfied with no sight of Cherry, he scanned the expanse of the quarters once again, shoving his way through the mass of drunken brutes. He got a glimpse of red hair every so often, but none turned out to be the individual that he was relentlessly searching for.

After seemingly hours of looking to no avail, the uncomfortable feeling nestled into his stomach almost swelling to the point of nausea, he finally found her, neatly tucked away in a corner with a man rooted beneath her opened knees. Daryl scowled as he saw that she was rolling her hips onto the throbbing bulge, that was undoubtedly there, in the redneck's loose pants. As he neared the two pleasure driven people, he saw that their lips were messily mashed together, tongues swirling in a dominating tango.

It felt almost wrong to Daryl to interrupt them, but he willed himself onward, using his own foolish reasons for coming here as fuel to force himself to break up the lustful scene.

"Cherry!" He called out to her, making sure that his voice was heard over the Guns N' Roses that was blasting out of the cut-rate speakers.

He saw Cherry reluctantly break away, stroking her thumb over the burly beard that adorned the man's chin. As soon as he noticed Daryl practically sprinting towards them, his face turned tomato red with anger, glowing a smoldering pink.

"Fuck off! I paid good money to get this bitch for the night!" the bearded man howled, harshly pushing Cherry from his grasp. He wore a dirty ivory V-neck that didn't do much justice for the beer belly that peeked from below the hem, along with a black bandana that peeled his long, frizzy hair back from his forehead.

"I ain't here to screw her, you prick. Just here to talk," he quipped, stepping over to the stripper to help her get back up onto her own two feet.

"Don't get yourself all worked up now, Oscar, I'll be back," she cooed, leaning forward to tickle the spot between his thighs before retreating away with Daryl, despite the molten glare that was boring into their backs.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She asked impatiently, dragging him over to the bar.

"Took your invitation from back at the shop, ain't that obvious?" he hurriedly explained, attempting to ignore her lack of decent clothing.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy who would come and watch a group of strippers perform for no good reason," she replied scornfully. "Merle told me that you're about the biggest wuss there is when it comes to this sort of stuff."

Daryl rubbed tiredly at his eyes as she spoke, feeling embarrassment tug at his insides. He pushed his flustered emotions aside, instead speaking, "Were you really letting that guy -"

"It's for the money, Daryl, not because I enjoy it," she reminded him angrily, slowly running a thin finger beneath the strap to the small slab of clothing that hid her upper chest to straighten it out. "Now please, out with it, I have a pissed off..._customer _waiting for me."

"Merle was an ass yesterday, back in the woods, I'm not...like him," he started, unsure of how to apologize. The action was foreign to him, after all.

"Yet you still bend to his will and do everything that he wants you to, don't put up a facade to make yourself feel stronger, won't help in the long run," Cherry explained, her silver eyes brightening for a moment as one of the neon lights flashing around the room streaked across her complexion.

"Christ, alright, fine," he blurted, unwilling to accept that what she had voiced was the truth. "Sorry," he spoke, hoping that she realized that it was for his brother, not for his feigned mask of pride.

"Apologizing for Merle, I get it," she muttered, tone both amused and skeptical. "It's fine."

Cherry shifted her position, causing Daryl's watchful gaze to wander to the thick wad of bandages that covered her palm. He picked at the dirt beneath his nails with his thumb, debating whether or not to speak.

"Curious as to how I got this, huh? Long story short, my boyfriend isn't the best guy, and he has a certain...fondness with knives."

"He's abusive?" Daryl inquired, hearing Merle's words echo in the back of his head, loud and foreboding.

_Can't trust a hoe like her._

"You could say that, or you could say that he has bad anger management problems," Cherry murmured, her ashen gaze turning solemn and sad.

_She spoon feeds that crap to every guy she meets._

"Huh," Daryl grunted, the noise treading past his lips as indifferent and uncaring. He leaned his back against the metallic countertop, wincing at the sore throbbing that erupted along his spine as he did so.

Cherry let out a low snort, pushing a hand through her shaggy, strawberry colored hair. "Yesterday... Back in the forest, I was running from him. Got sliced open while I was trying to defend myself."

"Must of hurt," Daryl retorted, words outlined with a heavy southern accent.

"It always does."

_Then she dumps 'em straight on their asses._

Daryl warily massaged his forehead with the pads of his fingers, eyes compressed to thin, thoughtful blue slits. He remained silent, unwilling to admit that he had been forced to withstand abuse as well. For years, ever since he was a child, relentless, never stopping, always agonizing. His tongue swiftly darted past his lips, hurriedly wetting his mouth, anguished memories parading through his mind like unwelcome foreigners. Or an army, determined and hostile, marching into battle.

Cherry must of caught onto his suddenly turmoiled demeanor, her soft expression turned inquisitive and skeptical, then to disbelief, then to resolute understanding. He felt oddly exposed once again, just as he did the evening that she, one of the only woman, unwillingly, and much too quickly, dragged him to his breaking point. Bitter fingers brushing along his skin, cramped onto those chipped concrete stairs around back.

"Nice seeing you, Daryl," the stripper rooted in front of him spoke, uncomfortably tugging at the sewn hem of her flimsy mini-skirt.

"Yeah..." Uncertainty densely slathered his words, a sign of a thick whim of befuddlement. "Right," he finished slowly, watching as she brushed past him, her bare shoulder lightly knocking against his arm.

He continued to stare after her, gaze fixed on her petite, almost malnourished figure, until the curled strands of fire that adorned her scalp melded in with the dull setting of the crowd.

Strange, how she always seemed to be the one stepping away from him, when in reality, Daryl was quite fond of the action himself. Clara was like the lightning that created a restless storm, dangerous, encouraging panic, unpredictable. And most of all, even though he never would of foresaw the blow that was soon to come...

Havoc inducing.

* * *

Daryl sat atop the sweltering leather seat of his truck, quizzically thumping the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. A heavy rain had unexpectedly spread across Georgia, slapping onto the drenched pavement, slamming onto the soggy mud that covered the wilderness, dripping from verdant leaves that clung to gnarled branches.

The old pick up's headlights cast a pale, yellowed color across the rocky street, a muddled mirror with small, watery craters splashing against its silvery surface.

Daryl's thin hair was a ragged mess, expression haggard and lost. Could he trust this bewildering mystery of a woman? Should he? Merle would undoubtedly disapprove, stating that he should go through woman as he did socks, quickly used, and just as hastily discarded. His brother had abandoned him, yes, that was true, but Daryl still held his word close to him, relished in it, lived off of it.

Merle was a selfish and unforgiving man, with emotions that were so self centered that even the most egotistical man would stagger in stunned astonishment. That reality was reflected when he fled their horrid household, escaped the torture that their had father burdened him with.

Only, when Daryl recalled years back, back when Merle withstood the agony alongside him, there was never a time when his brother, hard and as still as stone, wouldn't launch himself in front of the younger Dixon. He protected him from propelling fists, agile and cold butcher knives, the back of a hand, the harsh crunch of knuckles snapping against skin. Even when blood sprayed and dribbled onto the carpets, when Merle's body had been soiled and tarnished with bruises and welts, he remained solid. Daryl would always collapse onto his bed with barely a scratch, and perhaps the occasional bruise, while Merle silently bled in a corner, likely in need of stitches, muffled whines of pain filling the room.

Daryl could hardly blame him for leaving, he would of done the same. Sprinted away from his pain, all of the torture without a single look backwards. No hesitation, no guilt, no regrets.

His sky colored irises, bright against the darkness of night, flicked to the side, slowly, deliberately, arrogantly. And it was then that the deer sprinted into the dead center of the road, directly in front of the head of Daryl's ancient Ford.

"_Shit!_" Daryl sputtered, sharply twisting the steering wheel to the side in an attempt to swerve around the terrified animal. But it was too late.

His vehicle let out an ear shattering screech, as if it was horrified of tumbling off of the safety of the highway, just as horrified as Daryl was. He felt as if he was caught up in a dream, a nightmare, much like the one he had recently experienced. The gut churning feeling of being lifted to a towering height, then roughly thrown back down with such force that it felt as if his heart had leapt into his throat, was all in his head. The sudden raw burning in his side, the wetness dripping down his flesh, the spiderweb of a cracked windshield in front of him... It was all merely a figment of his imagination.

This couldn't be happening to him, it wouldn't. He had lived through his father, the never ending agony, he could endure through this, right?

Black festered along the sides of his vision, clouded shadows, beckoning him into the safety and security of sleep. A safe haven, a place where all of the painful flames licking across his hip would cease to exist, a place where the throbbing in his skull would disappear.

The last thing that Daryl was able to take in was a blinding white, the loud racket of tires screeching against pavement, and then, tentatively and carefully, ebony shade swallowed him whole.

* * *

**A/N: I apologize for the ridiculous delay, I had go deal with about a thousand things. Finals, problems with one of my more dimwitted friends... But that's besides the point, the important thing is that the next segment is out. I know it may seem a bit rushed, because it's exactly that. For those of you who're reading this, and have been patiently waiting for the next chapter, I decided to put you out of your misery and just throw it out there. I also had no idea where this was going when I started it, once I over came my writer's block, I typed out the first decent idea that came to mind. **

**Thanks to those of you who have favorited, followed, and reviewed this, you all are awesome! See you next chapter. **


	6. Chapter 6: A Twisted Retribution

Chapter 6: A Twisted Retribution

* * *

Daryl was slowly pulled from the warm caress of sleep by a cold, chilling force. Icy fingers, locking onto his fragile unconsciousness, shedding light on the tranquil darkness that bathed his mind. The first thing that he felt beneath him was thick, uncomfortable fabric pressed against his back, along with something creaking beneath him, subtly shifting in a fluent up-and-down motion.

Springs.

The rest of the blurred residue clouding his senses withered away, leaving the world basked in startling clarity. He was home, laying tiredly and groggily on his shredded mattress, with an unfaltering, malicious stare piercing into him, unsettling and resolute.

He wasn't at all surprised to find that it was Merle who was glaring daggers from beside him, worn complexion looking even more sunken than usual. His hands were covered in crusted blood, crackling away in some areas, lips compressed to a practically nonexistent line.

It was then that it all came crashing back to him like an able tsunami, recent memories whirling through his mind. Cherry, the arrogant deer, the crash, the burning, white hot pain. He took notice of the slight twinges of agony throbbing at his side, and Daryl became faintly aware of the dense bundle of bandages wrapped around his lower torso.

"You're a damn idiot," Merle scolded loudly, running a large palm over his shaved scalp. "Runnin' off after I told ya not to, goin' to save your _damsel in distress." _

"Wasn't savin' nobody," Daryl corrected dubiously, eyeing his brother with obvious scrutiny.

"But your damn self, didn't know you could get so guilty," the eldest Dixon leaned forward, a disdainful storm brewing within his blue irises. "And _weak_," he filled the final word with deep disgust, face twisting in irritation.

There were few descriptions Daryl couldn't stand being called. He had been branded with the names ugly, a misfortune, an accident, worthless, stupid, and countless others that would be forever burned into his memory like the pale scars embedded into his back. One of the limited things that enraged him, made his very blood boil with loathing, made his insides knot in a roaring anger, was weak.

And he snapped.

Daryl whipped himself from his bed, tackling Merle onto the matted carpet with the force of a drunken brute, much like his father, pouncing onto his helpless prey. His face was distorted in rage, vision holding an unfaltering red hue. A red that smothered him, blocked compassion, happiness, confusion, every single measly emotion except for anger, but for only a second.

And within that second, Daryl had managed to slam his fists into Merle's face with force that challenged a full grown bear, countless times, bringing his knuckles down on his brother's cheeks until he felt skin break beneath the harshness of his blows. The sound was sickening, it was like a wet thump, as if he had ripped through sodden paper.

He let out a rugged breath, cut short by the itching pain mauling at him. A noise began to fill the room- weak, nearly inaudible sounds- raspy cackles. It took him a moment to realize that it was Merle laughing. Daryl found his brow furrowing at the inane action, he was amused by this? _Should of seen that comin', _he reproached himself internally.

"Best way to let off some steam, kick someone's ass," Merle explained halfheartedly, wiping the blood from his cheek. It was a lame puncture, hardly gruesome enough to be called an injury.

Daryl merely grunted at this, frustrated, trying to push away the tiny whim of guilt prodding at him. He always had tendencies to let his short fuse take over his actions, turning them rash and childish. "How'd I get back here?" He asked, rolling himself off of his brother's limp form.

"Cherry hauled your ass the whole way here," Merle muttered, pausing as if to consider his next words, then spoke, "She looked scared, man, worried."

Daryl remained silent, pushing himself backwards until his spine pressed against the side of his stiff mattress. He was shocked to find that he wasn't the least bit baffled by Merle's statement, what with how the odd woman had been acting around him lately.

"You ain't surprised," Merle mumbled incredulously, his tone hinting that it was more like a realization than a question.

"Anyone would be scared shitless if they found some guy all torn up on the side of the road," Daryl pointed out hardily, tone hinting at a slight irritation beginning to brew from within him.

Merle merely snorted at this, wearily pulling himself onto his calloused elbows. "Dunno, man. Seemed..." He paused, scratching at the graying stubble on his chin. "Different," he sneered, letting out a bemused sigh as he lowered his arm back onto the tarnished flooring.

"Don't matter to me," Daryl retorted, rubbing at the back of his neck as if it was sore.

"Had a piece of glass the size of your damn head stuck into you," Merle commented lamely, discreetly hinting at the apparent large size of Daryl's skull.

He made no move to respond, instead shifting his position in a dull attempt to quell the pain swimming beneath his skin. In the midst of the thoughtless action, a hair raising noise tore through the house.

Footsteps-

Heavy, clobbering footsteps-

Growing closer with every throbbing pulse of Daryl's heart-

So close now, to the point where he could practically see the mud caked boots slamming against the carpet, leaving dirt and residue in their wake-

Until there was a courage shattering knock on the door, rattling the ground so fiercely that Daryl briefly questioned whether or not it had shattered the floorboards beneath them. He mentally reprimanded himself for being so arrogant, he of all people should of known that he wasn't safe. He would never be safe here, in his own home.

Merle seemed just as tense, though, he didn't show it on the outside. The pale, ashen blue of his eyes said that he was set on edge, the muscles in his arms rippling with fear driven anticipation.

"Open the damned door!" Their father hollered, slamming his fists onto the frail, hollowed wooden entrance. The sound of his voice bolted through the air much like a lion's roar, brief, but deafening and terrifying all the same. "Fucking..."

The rest after that was a meaningless muddle of curses and what should of been offensive insults, but all of the Dixon brother's senses were immediately blocked like a barricaded battle field when the sound of a boot meeting lumber broke the sudden silence.

Over and over again, each kick harder than the last. Daryl's eyes briefly widened as he noticed the tiniest noise in his ears, metal, a high pitched groan, as if the iron was somehow protesting at being twisted. And before he knew it, with one last whine, the first hinge broke from it's restraints, sending an array of nails showering the floor.

Will Dixon's foot met with the door once again, shaking the frame that held it in place. They both knew it, though neither would speak. The unsteady entrance would be breaking down any moment now, leaving them fully exposed like a rodent caught in a deadly trap.

Daryl fumbled for the buck knife near his bed, panic searing through him as if his bones were made of wood, sodden and drenched with gasoline, spreading like a wildfire. Sweat was dripping from his skin, sticky droplets quivering over his top lip and heating his body to the point of getting a heat stroke. Relief budded in his gut as his fingers enclosed around the leather handle of his blade. He wasn't defenseless now, he could put up a fight, if nothing else.

Daryl hardly noticed that the second hinge lay in pieces on the blood stained carpet, and the third was now squeaking with the effort to hold strong. The kicks seemed to be in sync with his pulse, with each racing beat, another blow would meet with the door, weakening its position.

"Damned old man," Merle swore under his breath, shakily forcing himself to his feet. "_I ain't afraid of you_," He sneered ruefully, and Daryl found his breath catching in his throat at the pure, venomous loathing that dripped from his words. "That's right, kick that door down, see what's waitin' for ya on the other side, eh?"

Daryl swallowed down the gut churning horror that was curdling his stomach, turning his bravery sour. Merle hadn't been forced to withstand their dad's torture in years, and though he didn't doubt that the agonized memories struck a chord, he had no idea how much more anger he had mustered after his oldest son fled. And more anger meant harsher punches. Daryl had gotten beat just last week, measly days ago, and he was in his mid thirties, still withstanding the thrashings.

The Dixon household was a twisted place, full of mutilated love and compassion. Daryl hated his father with a burning passion that challenged the fiery depths of Hell itself, even he couldn't deny that simple fact. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to leave the aging man on his own. To mend his own self inflicted wounds, created by the stupidity of an alcohol clouded mind, or perhaps to get him fed. He wasn't invincible, he couldn't live off of Jack Daniel's and Bud Light. Daryl felt as if he had to be the one to care for him, if no one else would, even if it was a lousy McDonald's meal every few days.

And then there were the rare moments of pride that Will Dixon showed to his youngest born. The short lasting times made him practically puff up with confidence. Sometimes it was when Daryl brought home an elk the size of their front porch, sometimes it was when their dad laid his caved eyes on a new pack of beer, sometimes it was when Daryl repaired their old truck, now laying tattered and beaten in an overgrown ditch. He winced at the memory, once he found out about it's disappearance, it wasn't going to be a swift pat on the back, a brief reassurance. No, try a month's worth of bruises and gashes inflicted within a few mere hours.

He hardly noticed that the door had fallen until the last hinge bounced and rolled at his feet, and a huge, massive shadow swallowed them both, quenching their courage like a candle dropped into a lake.

A shadow that had two burly arms spread at his sides, a shadow with a malicious, drunken sneer.

A shadow with a glistening knife resting in one palm, sharpened and ready to dirty itself with the vital fluids of its helpless victims.

* * *

**A/N: This was one of the shorter chapters, I know. (It was also a filler, shhh.) And you guys are aware of what fillers mean, right? Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. That I have something big planned for the next few, and sadly, last segments of this story. **

**And on a different note, thanks again for all of you who have favorited, followed, reviewed, and even read this! It means a lot to me, this story has been a huge challenge for me to write. (Hint, hint, It'd be really awesome to know how I'm doing.) See you next chapter! **


	7. Chapter 7: A Father's Fury

**A/N: Well, you may or may not already know this, but I was ****_this _****close to forgetting about this story, I had my mouse literally teetering over the delete button, completely at ease with the idea of wiping this from the face of the Earth. But, a certain reviewer got me back on my feet again, and made me realize how much hard work I've put into this. (A quick shout out to WayPastMyBedtime, you really helped me out! Thanks for that.) **

**So without further ado, I present to you the next chapter! (Which, sadly, turned out much shorter than I intended.) Thanks for reading! :)**

* * *

Chapter 7: A Father's Fury

* * *

Daryl stared in stark horror at the shadowy, massive silhouette of his father rooted in the doorway, moonlight winking against the iron of the kitchen knife. He scrambled shakily back onto his feet, as if the reality of the situation was just then truly sinking in, fear twining itself into his bones as if it was a part of the anatomy.

"What are you gonna do with that, huh? Did ya buy us a cake?" Merle seethed, jaw set firmly in agitation as he spoke. The younger Dixon briefly noted the veins throbbing in his brother's arms, as if the muscles hiding in his biceps were craving to get the smack down on the aged man. The man that they called their dad, though it hardly felt that way anymore.

Will Dixon was merely a shell of what he used to be, a decent parent, one that his sons had looked up to, longed to be like. He was the one who taught them how to hunt like professionals, how to aim a shot gun precisely on target, how to find the signs that a living animal had recently been to one specific area in the large, vibrant wilderness. He was the one who had gifted Daryl's revered crossbow to him, the one who had become a useless, abusive drunk who could hardly sputter a single statement from his lips soon after. After their mother passed.

It was a painful, terrorizing memory to recall, the sight of his house up in flames, the quivering orange tips lapping at the sky. All because their mother had been calmly enjoying a cigarette in bed, a simple action that had costed a life. A precious life. Even if neither of their guardians had been the most ideal care takers, it was better than this. Than getting beaten until Daryl couldn't stand, his whole body shivering in agony, the undeniable craving to collapse and succumb to the torture swirling through his mind almost constantly.

"_Cake_?" Their father chortled, complexion glazed over in a thoughtless haze. "Why would I get anythin' for you? Damn good for nothin' little -" the deep, spine chilling rhythm of his voice was crudely interrupted by a fit of wheezing coughs, sputtering through his dried, cracked mouth. Daryl cringed at the sight playing out before him, the image of his parent practically hacking up his insides, helplessly and stupidly.

"Merle?" He suddenly added as the coughing subsided, stocky figure turning lax and lean, throwing his arms up in surprise. "The hell did you get here? Should of told me, so I could get away from your pussy ass brother -"

The eldest Dixon's face suddenly contorted in anger, features becoming reddened and obscured by pure rage. His knuckles swiftly swung forward, meeting their dad's jaw with a loud _crack. _Will was nearly knocked off of his feet by the sturdiness of the blow, but before he could regain his composure, Merle's wrath was upon him again. He hurled their father onto the ground, knees locked firmly on either side of his large waist, forcing his tightly bound fist onto the older man's face until crimson liquid thickly coated the top of his hand.

"_Don't_," he heaved another punch downward. "_Ever," _another blow met its mark. "_Call my brother that," _their dad was beginning to squirm beneath Merle's unwavering strength, unsuccessfully trying to break free while lashing out blindly with his jaggedly tipped blade. "_Again," _he lunged forward another time, and another, each strike more forceful than the last. Daryl's tanned skin paled at the sound that began to fill his years, a wet thump, as if his sibling was driving his knuckles down onto mud.

"_Stop!" _Daryl wailed desperately, surprised at the firm assertion of his voice. His breathing was starting to become rugged and panicked, and a dark, foreboding thought crossed his mind.

_He's going to kill him, do something, he's going to kill him. _

"Merle, you're gonna kill him, knock it off!" he howled uselessly, trying to pry his brother off of their dad's struggling form. "Merle, _lay off!" _Daryl hollered, the loudness of his screams seemingly rattling the grimy windows. He covered his mouth with his forearm and unwillingly retreated back a few steps at the sight of their father's appearance. You couldn't see the expression of pure hatred that had been etched onto his face through the bloodied pulp that masked his features, his nose was bent at an unnatural angle, broken, maybe even shattered to bits. His lips were opening and closing as if he were a fish tossed out of water, madly attempting to get a much needed gulp of relieving air.

Merle let out a slight grunt of pain as the knife whipped out towards him in a large arc, slicing a wide gash through his skin, already welling up with reddened fluid. "Fuck," he cursed, stumbling away from their father and assessing the unintentional damage he had dealt. "Get 'im onto the couch," he ordered flatly, the usual fire in his voice had withered away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and faint annoyance.

Daryl angled his chin towards the matted carpet, stepping around his dad's helpless form and hooking his palms underneath his arms, slowly tugging him out of their small, tarnished room. His injured side screamed in protest as he moved, the pain silently begging to be quenched.

"Let me go, damn kid!" Will Dixon's voice suddenly roared, causing Daryl to jump back in shock. He jerked himself upwards, fingers crudely curling around the tattered collar of Daryl's shirt, slamming him harshly onto the floor. He weakly cried out as the inch deep cut in the side of his stomach flared in affliction, the healing wound uncomfortably stretching. His guardian brought his hand up into the air, the shining metal of the knife presenting itself in the light. Just as the sharp blade was about to be mercilessly brought down on him, a taut figure strongly rammed into Will's side, sending him flying from his body. The honed steel swiftly dragged across his cheek, opening a shallow cut that was already beginning to throb like a bee's sting.

"Stay there, old man," Merle commanded sternly, speaking to the limp form of their father sprawled against the wall just beside their bedroom entrance. Daryl's sibling let out a short moan of irritation as he inspected the long tear on his arm, marching lazily towards the kitchen.

Daryl allowed himself a secretive twitch of the lips, meant to be a subtle grin. This dreary situation reminded him of his childhood years, their dad slumped over the couch, a half empty bottle of bronze whiskey resting at his feet as he drunkenly slept, and Merle stamping off into the kitchen to tend to the cuts he had been burdened with. There were also the times, the youngest Dixon recalled, when he himself was grounded on an unsteady dining room chair made of weak lumber, his older brother halfheartedly tending to the bloody gouges carved into his flesh. He could still hear Merle's frustrated scolding waft through his ears, _sit still, stop squirmin', I swear, if you move one more time I'll stick another knife in you. _

He forced himself to shakily stand, the memories heedlessly whisking away from his helpless grasp, knees trembling so hard that they gently tapped against one another. He wearily scratched at the back of his neck, even though there was no itch to be tended to, the short hairs there curled at he ends by sticky sweat. He pushed himself through the threshold that opened up into the area where his mattress lay, still pitifully shredded and mauled. He leaned his forehead into his palm, thinking, the world melting away from around him, if only for a few measly seconds, until a shrill, high pitched sound broke the silence. _Vibration, _he dully realized, walking to the small, inch wide rectangle of light that illuminated the darkness. He noticed that it was Merle's cell phone as he neared the racket, a name splayed out on the surface of the glass. It read, Daryl found himself squinting as if in disbelief, before realizing that what he saw wasn't a hallucination.

It read, _Cherry _in large, bold letters.

He snatched the cheap device from the floor with a clammy hand, flipping open the lid with his dirt caked thumbnail. He peeked from behind the sturdy door jam, aged alabaster paint peeling away in some areas, before tiptoeing from the safety of hiding. Daryl threw a rushed glance at the kitchen, and to his relief, Merle was still dutifully tending to his cut, curses slipping from his mouth as burning undoubtedly rolled through his veins.

"Hello?" He heard Clara's muffled voice speak from the other line, and he practically tripped through the front entrance, scrambling down the rickety steps, carefully maneuvering over the shattered plank of wood which he had broken, and into their gravel clad driveway.

"Clara?" Daryl brought the phone up to his ear, hand quivering due to a clear lack of strength. "What're you callin' for?" He stepped onto the long, rocky patch of dirt, pebbles crunching beneath his heavy hiking boots. His expression turned grim as he saw the massive vacant space that their old truck used to inhabit, four deep ruts gorged into the ground from the tires were the only remembrance that the vehicle had even existed.

"He, I- I didn't mean to -" her voice was hurried and panicked, as if she didn't have enough time to speak her mind. "I didn't know what to do, he just came at me and -" the light, feathery tone in which she spoke sounded breathless, as if she were crying.

"Calm down, what happened?" Fear was beginning to rear back its sour head from within him, opening a whole new wound from the inside.

"It's my boyfriend, he's..." Clara's words cracked and withered away as an almost painful sounding whim of sobs racked her body, filling the speaker with horrified wails.

"He's what?" Daryl spoke, words sodden with hysteria and alarm.

A long, agonizing silence washed through the conversation, the sudden calm teetering over them both like water shuddering on the edge of a leaf, preparing for the long fall down, but not quite ready for the drop. Clara's terrified statement shattered the tense quiet, causing Daryl's blood to run cold, every ounce of already faltering courage that he had possessed crumbling to meaningless ash.

"He's dead."


	8. Chapter 8: The Many Shades of Betrayal

**A/N: I don't have all that much to say this time around, only a huge thanks to those of you who are reviewing, following, favoriting, and even reading right now. I hope this satisfies your cravings for the next chapter, even though, I must admit, I feel like it isn't one of my best. **

**But, that's besides the point. Enjoy! **

* * *

Chapter 8: The Many Shades of Betrayal

* * *

_He's dead, he's dead, he's dead. _

Clara's horrified words carried out through Daryl's mind, a deep, paralyzing echo. Each time the phrase repeated, another wave of panic would roll through him, prodding and poking at his fragile self control. _  
_

"He's _what?" _the youngest Dixon sputtered, hardly realizing that the words had slipped from his restraints.

"He's dead, Daryl," she repeated restlessly, sniffling in a failed attempt to quell her endless sobbing. "I didn't know what to do, it's my fault, and I'll..." she paused, building up unwanted alarm within Daryl's innards. "I'll take the blame if it comes to that, but right now, I need help hiding the body."

"You want me to help you hide a damn _body_?"

"No, I _need _you to help," the stripper's voice desperately wailed, blatantly begging for his cooperation.

Daryl was about to firmly refuse to scramble to her aid, to get himself tangled within the greedy and usually unfair fingers of the law. Only, what she spoke next struck a sensitive chord from within him, one that he didn't know he possessed. It took him more than a few seconds to distinguish it as sympathy, deep rooted, raw sympathy for the girl.

"I _trust_ you."

"Alright, fine," He grumbled modestly, shivering as he thought of hauling a cold, dead corpse out into the mud with his bare hands, having to touch a lifeless shell of what a person once was. Filled with exuberant energy, having the ability to laugh, to cry, to grow angry. That had all been helplessly whisked away from Clara's boyfriend by what was bound to be a knife, and he now lay somewhere as a pallid carcass, unable to breath, skin drained of any and all color, leaving it a ghastly white.

Clara let out a relieved sigh that she had been shakily biting back, and though the sound was supposed to make someone elated with gratitude, all that he felt were the bitter, prickling chills that spread down his scarred spine. "Thank you, Daryl."

"Yeah," he spoke curtly, attempting to force his hands to cease in their nervous trembling.

"Be here as soon as you can," she halted for a few loitering heartbeats, letting out a hysterical cry. _"Please," _was all that she spoke before the unfamiliar muffled noise of someone hanging up resounded through his ears, followed by the repetitive dial tone.

Daryl hesitantly pulled the bargain-basement cell phone from his ear, firmly holding his bottom lip between his teeth as he gawked at the scratched and damaged screen. _The hell was I thinkin'? _He mentally scolded, allowing a quivering breath to ungracefully scrape from his throat.

A sudden thought bolted through his mind like a clap of thunder, causing a low cough to bellow from his mouth, his throat turning cracked and painfully dry.

_Merle. What am I gonna tell Merle?_

Daryl flung himself around, absentmindedly rubbing at the shallow gash that bore into his cheek. He winced at the subtle stinging that spread through the wound, the dirt that had seeped into the reddened slice from his fingertips irritating the gash. He hurled the front entrance open, ignoring the burning that shot down his arm as the wood smacked back onto the muscular skin there. He briefly leaned against the peeling, moldy door jam, gathering what little courage he had left.

His gaze dragged over to where his father lay slumped against the wall, blood still pulsing from the fatty muscle that had been exposed from Merle's thrashings. Without a second measly thought, Daryl advanced cautiously towards him.

"Dad?" He spoke slowly, unsurely. "You alright?" The youngest Dixon hardly expected a response, and the brief theory that he had died crashed into his mind, sending anger jolting and twisting at his stomach.

"What kind of dumb ass question is that, boy?" Will Dixon jeered coldly, his torso wriggling uncomfortably. "Do I look like I'm fuckin' alright?"

"Looks like you're gonna have to go to the hospital for that," Daryl murmured on a whim of bravery, weakly bending down on one knee to closer examine his injuries.

"Just leave me the hell alone, kid!" His father clamored, blood sputtering from his parched lips. "Why don't you be a good son and get me a beer, huh?" He ordered, letting out a heartless cackle.

"I think you'd be better without," he muttered, surprised at how easily he had defied his parent. "_That's_ me bein' a good son," he quipped darkly, indignantly pushing himself onto his feet, and they obediently carried him to the kitchen.

"Merle?" He inquired, his mouth twitching in what seemed like a humorless smirk as he saw that his brother was still tenderly nursing his inch deep cut.

"What's the matter, baby brother?" Merle asked gruffly, roaring a curse as he pressed more alcohol into his severe puncture, clearly ignoring the much more distinguishable swears easily sweeping through their father's mouth from behind them.

"We've got a pretty bad situation," Daryl explained reluctantly, his voice distant and hardly audible.

"And?"

"It's Cherry."

"There's always a situation with that bitch."

"No, man. This is different," he cleared his throat, silently drawing in a breath before blurting, "her boyfriend's dead, she killed 'em."

Merle threw him an incredulous stare, his blue eyes widening with evident surprise, and there was another near impossible emotion to place flickering within his pallid irises. Daryl's breath hitched, swallowing down the terror that began to turn his strength sour.

It was fear. Merle, tough as nails, the man who wasn't afraid to face death straight in the face, was scared.

"Well, shit. I knew she'd pull somethin' like this," Daryl's eldest sibling stammered, crudely throwing the stained dish towel that he had been dabbing his wound with onto the counter top.

"Pull what? She ain't lyin', she sounded scared shitless!" Daryl hollered, frustrated at his clear lack of trust.

"We best get this cleaned up, Mr. Damn Wonderful," Merle taunted lamely, heaving the front door open.

Daryl sternly caught his brother by the elbow, lurching his burly frame backwards, azure eyes glazed over in worry. "No, you stay here. I got myself into this, I can get myself out."

"We're in this shit together, brother," Merle commanded harshly, wrenching himself from Daryl's iron grip.

Before long, the two of them were plummeting onto the battered porch, throwing themselves over the shattered and unstable steps. They sprinted to the front yard, boots crunching on top of the rocky debris that blanketed the area, when a stomach dropping realization slammed into the both of them.

They didn't have their truck, it was gone, laying in ruins on the side of the road around a mile away from The Crazy Horse.

"_Hell!_" Merle barked, yanking Daryl into step behind him with one dirt caked hand. "C'mon, through the woods!"

"You know where she lives?" Daryl questioned dubiously, propelling through the dimmed lining of green forest, ignoring the sharp branches and thorns tugging at his arms.

"'Course I do, why else would she be callin' me?" Merle retorted, his raspy voice lined with thick amusement.

"Let's just keep movin'!" Daryl yowled, stumbling over knots and roots that crowned the dirt.

"She lives in a cozy little place about a mile from here!" Merle sputtered clownishly, pushing his palm from a tree to hasten his pace.

Daryl made no move to respond, instead shielding his eyes with a tanned forearm to avoid the weeds whacking onto his cheeks. He flinched as the rough, jagged bark of a nearby sapling tore through the thick flesh on his elbow, leaving a dirt slathered burn on his skin.

The brothers seemed to relentlessly run for hours, ducking and swerving, until a distant wailing sound thrummed in their ears. Except, this wasn't a person's cry, nor was it one of an animal.

It was police sirens, the high pitched squeals shattering the vibrant racket of the wilderness.

"We were too slow, Little D," Merle mumbled deeply, voice sounding oddly solemn.

"Wanna tell me why the god damn cops are there?!" Daryl screamed, raking his shaky fingers through his knotted hair.

"I've run into trouble with this girl before, and I've gotta handle things from here, Darylena. Don't say anythin' from here on out."

"You said it your damn self, we're in this shit together!" Daryl howled, his mind attempting to fully grasp the situation that they had gotten unwillingly tangled in.

"You're a royal pain in my ass, baby brother," Merle swooned gratingly, motioning with one hand for him to follow.

They struggled forward with heavy hearts, weaving through the closely knit wilderness until the blue and red lights of the police cars began to dance along the trunks of wide trees, basking the leaf scattered ground in their horrifying light.

Merle shoved his younger sibling behind him as they hesitantly pulled themselves through the last thicket of brush, gnarled branches catching on Daryl's mud crusted shoes and nearly causing him to topple onto the earth. He allowed a curse to bellow past his lips, his gaze slowly latching onto the scene that had curtly enclosed them both.

At least four cars with flashing lights gleaming from the tops were reared beside the house, officers prowled around the yard, lurching down onto one knee to examine the scuffed dirt. The whole area was basked in crimson and sapphire, bouncing off of the ivy infested shingles of Clara's home. The frightened girl was seated within the back of an ambulance, the wide metal doors swung out at either side next to her quivering form. Daryl couldn't quell the sudden sadness that tugged at his insides. The impoverished stripper's eyes were inflamed and tired, an irritated pink rimming her long top and bottom lashes. Unintentional tears still tumbled down her rounded cheeks, some drying midway, and others dripping from her jawbone. She uneasily clutched a shock blanket that was tightly draped over her nimble shoulders, knuckles white with tension.

Daryl planted a sturdy foot in front of the other, prepared to launch himself towards a heartbroken Clara, inform her that he was here, not only to comfort her, but to aid her in any way that he could. Only, a deep, foreboding thought had been piercing his mind ever since the first siren blared in their ears, one that caused shock to knot his innards, and his brain to whirl in confusion. She had relentlessly pleaded for him to help her to hide the ice cold corpse of her boyfriend, and yet, the police were here. Why? They couldn't possibly slip past them unnoticed, pulling a dead body out into the tangled mass of forest. They would be caught within seconds, and hauled off to jail.

He redirected his gaze to Merle, who was grimly staring ahead, seemingly lost in thought, pondering, weighing his limited options. He scratched at the graying stubble on his square shaped jaw, letting out a husky breath of aggravation. He hurriedly brought one hand up into the air, gesturing for Daryl to follow him out into the turmoil.

They advanced through the safety of the gloomy shade that had protected them, leaving the two siblings revealed in the light. Daryl's gaze flicked to where a haughty police officer was firmly rooted beside Clara, speaking in a low, secretive voice. The red head offered the law enforcer a slow, frightened nod, gingerly rubbing at her temples. _So she's in cahoots with these cops, that means she called 'em here, and the only reason she'd want to do that is -_

_"_It's him!" A terrified voice shrieked, and it took the youngest Dixon more than a few lingering seconds to realize that the words had cascaded past Clara's lips. She pulled the blanket further over her petite form, her soft features visibly paling. She swiftly raised a finger into the air, pointing at something - or someone.

Daryl's lungs suddenly constricted, cutting off the steady flow of air that had been moving through his throat, turning the appendage hoarse. His knees began to shake from beneath him, the sirens that were shattering his eardrums growing ten times louder, drumming agonizingly through his head in a terrifying echo.

She was pointing straight at him, turning every last officer's attention in his direction. And helplessly, he remained grounded to the spot, the leafy dirt beneath him seeming less stable than it had a mere ten seconds ago.

His attention turned promptly to Clara, searching for some sort of evidence that what she had wailed had been a mistake, a simple misplacement. But there was nothing there but fear, fear as solid as stone, and malicious, venomous anger written on her features.

"The hell -" Daryl faintly heard Merle swear, but the unhealthy rhythm of his brother's crudely interrupted statement was muffled and distant, as if there was a barrier that had been built between him and the world. Everything, from Clara's malevolent glare, to the cop's alarms deafening him, to the vibrant red and blue that was flashing across his vision, all the way to the static voices drifting from the receivers that the cops held, was a muddled blur of echoes and commands. Nothing made even the slightest bit of sense.

Not until he felt cold, bitter metal sliding around his wrists, clicking as the restraints slid into place. And it was then that he realized that he had been handcuffed, and the full reality that he had been accused of a murder which he didn't commit pounded onto him, sending all of the limited courage that he had sprawling lifelessly at his feet.


End file.
